


Watercolor Hearts

by andiheardeverything



Category: Glee
Genre: M/M, kbl reverse bang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-18
Updated: 2013-07-18
Packaged: 2017-12-20 13:49:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/887999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andiheardeverything/pseuds/andiheardeverything
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kurt, a boy who loses everything. Blaine, a boy who just wants to help.</p>
<p>Written for the kurt/blaine reversebang, for the beautiful art done by cheesycheesecake</p>
            </blockquote>





	Watercolor Hearts

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thanks to shandyall, andercas, and holytoetouchblaine for their wonderful beta skills and cheerleading. They helped keep me on track. And a huge shout out to my artist for her absolutely stunning art, her encouragements, and her ability to put together even more amazing art on such a short notice. She is a true talent, and I am so lucky to have gotten to work with her.

This isn’t the story you think it is. This isn’t the story of a boy, lost in the world of the seeing, who finds a savior to lead him through. This isn’t a story about being shown the light, about expectations, about learning how to live in an unfamiliar world. This isn’t a story about conforming.

This is a story about darkness.

This is a story about hope.

-

He’s nine when he loses his mom. He doesn’t remember much; a car, a light, a scream. The sound, metal twisting itself together like crumpled paper. He doesn’t remember waking up, no harsh reality or tears of joy. He remembers drifting, like that time his parent’s took him to a lake and he spent the day napping in the warm sunshine on the deck of a boat. Gentle rocking, up and down, lulling him to sleep.

There’s a buzz of something going through his veins, and he doesn’t understand but he doesn’t try, just lets the boat drift him through the waves, the night sky dark above him.

There are no stars.

-

The boat capsizes

     A pain in his head, throbbing to the beat of his heart

           A hand in his, dragging him above water

     A voice, his fathers

Calming

-

A father sits at a bedside, clutches his son’s hand tight. His son, the only family he has left, only nine years old, wavering on the brink. Kids shouldn’t have to fight to stay alive, he thinks. It should have been me, he thinks. If only, he thinks.

Kurt stirs, whimpers, fingers twist in his grip.

“I’m here,” he says, “you’re okay.”

It’s a lie.

They told him there was a chance. Doctors and nurses and specialists. They did tests, scans, assessments. He knew, but nothing could compare to the reality, to his son blinking his eyes open, forehead creased with confusion, tongue licking over dry lips, asking why the lights are off.

They’re not.

-

Kurt’s nine years old when he listens to his first Broadway show. He’s nine when he get an easy bake oven for Christmas and decides when he grows up he wants to be a professional cake baker. He’s nine when his mom adopts a kitten, and lets him name her Sparkle. He’s nine when his dad stops asking him to join Little League baseball.

He’s nine when his eyes close in an accident.

He’s nine when he wakes up blind.

-

He doesn’t understand. It’s too much for him to process, his dad’s gentle words in his ears, the doctor’s calm explanation. It doesn’t make any  _sense_  and he’s waiting for the lights to come back on, waiting to blink away the curtain in front of his eyes, waiting for everything to go back to normal.

He doesn’t understand when they talk about his mom, doesn’t understand why his arm hurts so much, doesn’t understand why he can’t just open his eyes and  _see_. His dad gets in bed beside him, wraps his arms around him and holds him close. He cries into his shoulder, confusion and pain weighing at his soul, his dad whispering words of comfort, rocking him gently, wishing there was something he could do to make this better.

But there isn’t, so he cries along with his son.

-

Kurt clings close to his dad when they finally get home, his right arm still heavy in its cast. He’s scared, his steps timid, and Burt keeps a steady arm around his shoulder.

“There’s stairs here,” he warns and Kurt takes an exaggerated step, has no way of knowing where to put his foot, his toe snagging on the edge and he stumbles, halfway to his knees when Burt catches him, lifts him up like a rag doll, all fight gone out of the boy, too young and too sensitive to deal with something like this. He cries, the tears soaking hot into Burt’s shirt, raining down inside his chest and he wonders if this is what heartbreak feels like.

They spend the day in Burt’s bed, too big without Elizabeth, the sense of  _loss_  heavy in the air, crushing down on them. Burt puts in one of Kurt’s CDs, one of those blonde pop stars he was always listening too, thinks Kurt could use a little familiarity right now. Sparkle, the cat Burt never really warmed to, curls up in Kurt’s lap, nuzzles it’s head against his arm. He relaxes a little, his small body snuggling against Burt’s, his fingers twisting knots in his father’s shirt, clinging.

“We’re going to figure this out, I promise.” The words fall flat in the room, full of a promise Burt isn’t sure he can keep.

The sound of Kurt’s breath

                                  shuddering

                    wavering

          stilling.

whispers

“I don’t want to forget what you look like.”

_You won’t_ Burt wants to say,  _how could you forget?_ But Christ, he’s only nine, how can he be expected to remember, how can he live his life hanging on to something he only knew when he was so young, when everything was new and shifting and not quite settled into concrete reality.

“It’s okay if you do,” he says instead, presses a firm kiss to Kurt’s head. “It’s okay if you forget, because I’ll always be here.”

Kurt holds tighter, nods against his chest, his voice half muffled when he speaks again.

“I miss her.”

Emotions prick heavy behind Burt’s eyes, beat a solemn rhythm in his chest.

“I do too, bud.”  
  


-

The days are hard. His dad is there, always within reach, whenever Kurt needs. He’s there to get Kurt up in the morning, to help him stumble into the bathroom, runs the water for his bath and Kurt hates having his dad help him with this, hates reaching for the soap and missing it every time, hates not knowing how many stairs there are, hates tripping on every corner of rug. But he’s too scared, too lost and alone in his dark world to do it himself and he  _needs_  his dad, needs him so much he can’t help but cry when he leaves the room, always rushing back in with words or reassurance, with strong arms to hold him close, to scoop him up and make him feel  _safe_.

Safe.

Secure.

Sinking.

Surrounded.

He doesn’t touch the walking cane propped on the side of the couch, ignores his dad when he asks about getting rails installed in the house.

After all, he’s not going to be like this forever.

He refuses to be.

-

Seven days and the anger sets in. Tears and shaking shoulders replaced with screams and thrown objects. Only three days more and Burt has to go back to work, is still at a complete loss of what to do. He has numbers, contacts, people he can call for help. Kurt has an appointment with a children’s specialist and Burt is going to meet with the school, try to figure out options, but he still just doesn’t know. He doesn’t know how to help, how to make things better.

Kurt’s emotions could circle the color wheel, and Burt remembers how lost he felt raising Kurt before this, back when he had Elizabeth and now… he listens as Kurt’s screams dissolve into a fit of tears, his fists banging angrily on the table, the drumroll of a child whose whole life has been ripped away. And Burt can’t even imagine, he already feels empty inside with the loss of his wife, can’t imagine losing his entire world and he wants to do  _something_ , to say the magic word that will calm Kurt down, to know how to hold him so he feels safe, to know how to make him believe that everything will be okay, that they still have each other.

But he doesn’t know, so he closes his eyes, lets his head fall back against the wall outside the kitchen, and listens as his son breaks.

-

“We need to go meet with the school today, bud,” Burt says, his fingers carding through Kurt’s sleep tangled hair, his eyes blinking slowly open, staring into nothing. His hand reaches, searching, and Burt brings his own hand up, lets Kurt ground himself, knows that the transition from dreams to reality is the most disorienting time for him. “We need to get up, okay?”

Kurt lets out a tiny whimper, shakes his head, his eyes squeezing shut. A form of denial, Burt supposes. He lets him breathe for a moment, lets the leftover sleep clear his head, strokes a gentle rhythm on the back of his hand.

“You ready to get up?” Kurt shakes his head, presses his face into the pillow. “Come on, bud. We have an appointment today. Don’t you want to go back to school?”

“No,” Kurt says, voice hard, his face scrunching up in that way it does when he’s just starting to get angry.

“You can’t stay at home forever,” Burt says, tries to keep his voice even, but he never was the best at reasoning with his son, that was always Elizabeth. “I have to go back to work soon, and you have to go back to school, okay? We’ll make it easy for you though, bud. I promise. That’s why we need to go to this meeting.”

“I don’t want to,” Kurt says flatly, pulls his hand away, tucks it under his small body. Burt draws in a deep breath, rubs at his eyes.

“We don’t really have a choice, Kurt. I need you to get up so we can go.”

Kurt sits up, backs himself in the corner of his bed, crosses his arms over themselves. “No.”

“Kurt, I don’t wanna argue with you. Please do this, for me, okay?”

Kurt shakes his head. “Mom wouldn’t make me.”

The words are sharp, biting, carve a hollow in Burt’s chest and he just sits for a minute, tries to breathe through the vacuum inside of him.

“Okay,” he whispers after a moment, standing up and looking down at Kurt, curled up so small in his bed. “Okay.”

He makes his way back downstairs, picks up the phone.

_Mrs. Jones?_

_Hi_

_Kurt needs…_

_I can’t just leave…_

_Please,  can you…_

_Thank you_

-

He’s tired when he gets back, tired in a way he didn’t know existed, not before this. The kid’s meal bag crinkles in his hand, the house an oppressive quiet when he enters. He kicks his shoes off, shrugs off his jacket and readjusts his hat, takes a deep breath, knows that he needs to be back here for Kurt now, no matter how tired he is.

Mrs. Jones is sitting in the living room, Kurt leaning against her, eyes closed and chest moving with the slow rhythm of sleep. She smiles up at him, a gentle hand easing Kurt to the side until he curls up in the pillows.

“Was he…” Burt starts and Mrs. Jones stands, gives a small nod.

“He was scared at first, I think,” she says, looking back at the small boy curled up on the couch. “But we sang a little and that helped calm him down.”

Burt sighs, sets the kid’s meal down on the coffee table.

“I asked him if he would want to play with Mercedes soon and he said he would,” Mrs. Jones continues and he knows she’s trying to reassure him, everyone seems to be doing that lately.

“Okay. I’ll talk to him about it,” Burt says, nodding. Kurt sniffles a little, squirms on the couch as he readjusts. “Thanks again for watching him.”

“Of course, Burt. Anytime you need to get out for a bit, just give me a call. Mercedes is dying to see him again.”

“Thanks, I’ll let you know,” Burt says, knows he probably sounds awkward right now but it really has been a long day full of difficult decisions and mostly he just wants to collapse on the couch next to Kurt and take a long nap.

“You’re very brave,” Mrs. Jones says, pausing on her way to the front door and looking back. “There are some parents who wouldn’t be able to do this on their own.”

Burt’s chest feels tight, pressure behind his eyes and he gives a short nod.

“Give me a call, anytime.” Mrs. Jones smiles, and takes her leave through the front door.

Burt slowly lets out the breath he was holding, sinks down on the couch beside Kurt. He watches Kurt for a second, his face peaceful in sleep, body relaxed, and aside from the cast wrapped around his wrist you’d never know there was anything different. Anything not right.

“Hey bud.” Burt sets a gentle hand on Kurt’s shoulder. “Wake up.”

Kurt stirs, eyes blinking open, breath hitching in that way it does every time he wakes, when the comfort of sleep morphs into cruel reality.

“Dad?”

“Hey, sport. Did you have a good time with Mrs. Jones?”

Kurt shrugs, pushing himself up to lean against his dad.

“I brought you some chicken nuggets.” Burt reaches for the bag and presses it carefully into Kurt’s hands. Kurt fumbles with the bag, almost drops it when he misjudges the distance to the coffee table. He makes a noise of frustration, throws the bag down and crosses his arms. Burt doesn’t say anything, just picks it back up and sets everything out, pulls the coffee table closer.

“Here’s the chicken,” Burt guides Kurt’s small hand over to where the chicken is. “And here are the fries. I got you chocolate milk too. That’s here.”

He sits back, watches as Kurt feels over the food, orienting himself to where things are before grabbing ahold of a nugget, eating cautiously.

“You’ve got it,” Burt says, and feels too tired to smile.

-

Eyes blink slowly open to the dark room around him.

No.

Not dark.

Blind.

He hates that word, more than he’s hated anything in his life. More than he hates Erin Clark for stealing his yellow Power Ranger. More than he hates Noah Puckerman for knocking him down in the sandbox. More than he hates the fact that his mom will never hold him in her arms, ever again.

He doesn’t know what time it is, just remembers his dad tucking him in, kissing him goodnight, telling him he’ll come get him up in the morning. But he doesn’t know when that is, and he really has to pee.

Covers pool around his waist as he sits, up, swings his feet to dangle over the side of the bed. He calls for his dad, his voice wavering and small, waits, but only the silence of the house around him answers. With shaking hands he pushes himself up, the ground cold on his bare feet.

Waits.

Makes his way slowly across the room, hands finding his desk, the wall, pushes his door open with a creak. The bathroom is just down the hall, second door on the right, he knows this, but as he steps into the open space, fear creeps in, up over his legs, rises into his lungs, anchors him to the spot.

He can’t do this, can’t walk through the dark, all alone, without his dad’s strong hand to guide him. So he stands there, paralyzed, and cries. He cries, arms wavering through nothing ahead of him, and calls for his dad. Calls until arms are wrapped on him and he sinks to the floor, held tight, comforting words whispered in his ear.

_It’s okay._

_I’ve got you._

_You’re safe._

Only here, his father a security blanket around him, does he actually believe it.

-

Recovering is hard.

These things take time.

Skip ahead.

-

First day back at school. His dad’s hand firm in his, guiding him - he’s still too scared for the walking stick, not ready for the independence that it brings, but his dad tells him that’s okay, he can take as long as he wants. (Kurt knows it’s a lie but he clings to it anyways).

They’re in the principal’s office. It smells musty, like too many old papers piled in corners, like cologne that’s been around since before Kurt was born. It’s not his old school, he refused to go back there, didn’t want the people he knew  _before_  to see him, to give them something more to tease him about, make it easier for them to steal his toys and call him names. And his dad agreed, his old school couldn’t provide the services he would need, and he’d ranted for hours on the phone about the downfall of modern education, whatever that means. Kurt doesn’t really care.

He sits there, holding his dad’s hand as tight as he can while they talk, words he doesn’t pay attention to. He just wants the day to be over and to be back in the safety of his bedroom.

“Kurt?” A soft voice, a girl, higher than his mom’s voice. There’s a hand on his knee, the touch light and he can feel the warmth of someone close. “My name’s Bethany. I’ll be your para during the day. Do you know what that means?”

A quick, nervous shake of his head.

“It means I’ll be with you all day, and we’ll go to class together and I can help you out if you need me too. Does that sound okay?”

A pause, his dad’s hand gives his a squeeze and he knows he needs to be brave. So he nods, mutters a quiet  _yeah_.

“We’re going to do half days for awhile, get us warmed up and used to each other. I’ll think we’ll get along very well.”

Kurt nods, head hanging because it doesn’t matter where he looks anyways.

The grown ups talk some more and soon his dad is standing, his hand releasing from Kurt’s, replaced with the pressure of a soft grip on his shoulders.

“You’re going to go with Bethany now, okay Kurt?” His dad’s voice, hesitant. “I’ll come pick you up at lunch time.”

And suddenly hot tears are on Kurt’s cheeks, pricking at his eyes, his head shaking frantically.

His dad’s arms wrap around him, hold him close to his chest, presses a kiss to his hair.

“You’re gonna be okay, I promise.” The words soft, full of meaning. “You’re my brave boy.”

He’s not brave, but he thinks he can try.

-

Bethany’s hand is smaller than his dad’s, but he holds on just as tight.

-

School is scary. The halls are loud and full of people; Kurt presses himself against Bethany, flinches every time someone runs into him. His first class is art, Bethany tells him, guides him onto a stool. The teacher stops by, takes Kurt’s free hand and tells him how excited she is to have him in class, and that if there’s anything he needs to let her know. He thinks she sounds nice, and tries to smile, but smiling is so hard, lately. He nods instead and she seems satisfied, brings them the supplies they’ll need.

They’re painting crafts, and Bethany has him pick between a small wooden house and a box. He chooses the box, and Bethany guides his hands to the different paint colors, helps him to maneuver between the brush and the box. It’s hard, and he ends up getting more paint on his hands than on the box, and despite Bethany’s gentle encouragements he gets angry, throws the box back onto the table.

“I want to go home,” he whispers, hates the way his voice wavers because he’s not a baby.

“I know,” Bethany says, her hand on his shoulder. “Just a few more hours to go, then you’ll be home. How about we clean up?”

Kurt nods, and lets her lead him, because he doesn’t know what else to do.

There’s nothing else he  _can_  do.

-

The morning passes. Bethany leads him to homeroom, where a teacher named Mrs. Pearson greets him, says she’s so glad to see him, and really everyone seems to be saying that today and he doesn’t really get it. He has his own desk, Bethany in a chair right next to him, and they don’t really do a lot that first day. It’s hard for him to keep up, and Bethany tries as hard as she can, but he’s not really listening, too angry and sad to even try. She says it’s okay, he’s still adjusting, they’ll take things slow for now.

It isn’t until Bethany is leading him down the hallway again, his knuckles still burning from where he’d slammed them on the desk, his throat still sore with the remnants of his scream, that he decides he really hates school. He’s never going back.

“It’s okay,” Bethany is rubbing a soothing circle on his back and he realizes he’s crying. “Everything’s okay.”

Kurt leans into her, lets her wrap her arms around his small body, and for a moment he can pretend it’s his mom hugging him.

“It’s only your first day and you’ve been so brave already.”

Kurt shakes his head against her shoulder. “I hate it here.”

“That’s okay. You’re still getting used to everything.” Bethany draws back, takes his hand once more. “We’re going to go to a different class room, now, and I promise we’ll take things slow, okay?”

-

A different room, a different seat, a different teacher. Miss Webb, like a spider. He’s at a table this time, and can hear a few other kids around him, but not very many.

“This is where we’ll go in the afternoons, and we’ll learn things at the pace you want to go at,” Bethany explains. He can hear her shifting, talking in a low voice to someone else, the sound of her laugh in his ears.

“Kurt, I think there’s someone who wants to meet you,” Bethany says, sounding amused.

And then there’s a hand, small like his, searching, wrapping around his fingers.

“Hi. I’m Blaine.”

Kurt doesn’t know what to say, just whispers a quiet  _hi_  back. He wonders if this boy is going to make fun of him, if he’ll laugh when he can’t do things.

“Blaine, why don’t you sit with Kurt for a minute while I go talk to the teacher quick,” Bethany says, her hand giving Kurt’s shoulder a squeeze. “I’ll be right back Kurt.”

And then she’s gone, leaving him with this boy he doesn’t even know.

“Miss Webb said we were getting a new student and she said you were just like me and that maybe we could be friends,” Blaine is saying, and Kurt can feel the warmth of his body next to him.

“I’m never coming back,” Kurt says, shaking his head. “I hate school.”

“But it’s only your first day!” Blaine exclaims, sounding confused. “Is it because you don’t know your way around yet? I can show you!”

“I don’t even know  _how_ to get around,” Kurt says, frustrated and leans away from where he can feel Blaine. “Go away.”

Silence for a moment.

“I can’t see either.” Kurt closes his eyes tightly at Blaine words. “And I get around okay I think.”

Kurt can feel Blaine shifting beside him, like he’s nervous, but Kurt’s tired and today has been too long and too frustrating for him to care.

“Please go away. I don’t want to be friends.”

Blaine doesn’t say anything else.

-

In the car, the heater spluttering weakly in the cool March air, Burt watches Kurt, curled up so small in the passenger seat, his arms crossed over his chest. He won’t talk about school, won’t do anything except nod or shake his head, only said one thing when Burt picked him up.

“I’m never going back.”

-

Burt doesn’t know what to do, he doesn’t know how to make things better for Kurt, how to get him back to school, how to  _fix_ this.

And then late one night, staring at the muted image of Nascar drivers on the TV, he realizes.

Some things can’t be fixed.

-

It takes two days for Kurt to go back to school. Bethany greets him with a hug and a hand to hold, tells him they can go at whatever pace he needs. Kurt nods, cheeks still raw from crying into his dad’s shoulder the night before, says “thank you,” because he knows his dad wants him to be polite.

The day does go a little better. He’s used to the feel of Bethany’s hand, her gentle words of encouragement, and she shows him tricks like how to organize his paint in art class so that he always remembers where the colors are.

He still gets scared in homeroom, too many voices and too many people but instead of getting angry he tugs the sleeve of Bethany’s shirt, asks her if it’s okay to leave now or do they have to stay. He starts crying and he doesn’t understand why that’s all he seems to do lately, even when he’s not trying to.

Bethany takes him to the other classroom and it’s quieter, calmer, and Kurt feels like he can breathe. She lets him sit for a minute, until his tears have dried and he’s feeling better, tucked away from the uncertainty of so many other people. They work on an assignment for awhile, Bethany asking him questions and writing everything down. She tells him soon he’ll learn how to read again, it’s just a little different than how he knew before, but soon he’ll be just as good as he used to be. He’s not sure if he believes her, but he asks if they’ll have  _The Babysitters Club_ for him to read and she laughs, a good, happy laugh, and tells him she’s sure they’ll be able to find it.

Kurt smiles.

-

“Hi?” A voice, nervous. Kurt recognizes it as the boy’s from the other day, and he freezes, Bethany giving his elbow an encouraging squeeze.

“Hi,” Kurt says back, turns his face towards where he can feel the boy taking a seat beside him.

“I thought you weren’t going to come back.” Blaine sounds sad and Kurt doesn’t understand why, it’s not like Kurt has been nice to him.

“My dad made me.” Kurt crosses his arms.

“Oh.”

He can feel Bethany rest a hand on his shoulder. “Kurt, Blaine has really been looking forward to meeting you. Do you think maybe you could let him help you out a bit? He’s very helpful.”

“I am,” Blaine says proudly. “I know how to get around the school and everything.”

Kurt stays silent for a moment. He doesn’t want to be friends, he doesn’t  _need_  any friends, but if Blaine really is just like him, and if he can really do these things… maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.

“I guess,” he says, hitting his toe against the ground. He’ll let Blaine help him, but he isn’t going to be his friend.

-

It starts off slow, a gentle cadence before a crescendo. He goes to school, lets Blaine help him with his assignments, takes his hand when he volunteers to show him where the bathroom is. Blaine doesn’t seem to mind when he gets mad and when he shouts, when he throws everything to the ground and tries to storm away. He just waits for Bethany to calm Kurt down before offering his hand, the only stable link Kurt seems to have to the world around him.

Kurt thinks he likes the feel of Blaine’s hand in his. It’s not as big as his dad’s or Bethany’s, it’s not fidgety or nervous, it’s calm. Practiced. Sure.

It’s nice.

-

Blaine Anderson.

A baby, born too early, his first days spent balancing on the delicate edge of life, the world gazing in through the clear walls of the isolette, watching, waiting, not daring to hope. He holds strong, a tiny spark of light refusing to go out, and when his mom takes him home for the first time, holds him close in the rocking chair by the window, she knows.

It doesn’t matter that her son will never open his eyelids to seeing eyes because she has more love to give him than his little heart could possibly comprehend, because he’s made it this far and she’s going to do anything she can to make sure he keeps going, because he’s barely three months old and he’s already the bravest person she knows.

-

Growing up is hard when you’re different. Blaine’s never known anything else but he doesn’t like the way kids tease him at the park, or how they try to take his things because they think he can’t tell. He doesn’t understand, it’s not like he chose to be this way, and really, he just wants a friend.

(he has a guide dog named Max that he plays with when no one else wants to, and it makes things a little less lonely, but it’s not the same)

But he tries to stay happy because his mom tells him he deserves to be happy and that he’s special, and he believes her because his mom never lies. He waits, and tries so hard, and when his teacher tells him they’re getting a new student who’s just like him, and maybe he could help him adjust, maybe he could be there to be his friend because he’ll probably be scared, Blaine can’t help but think that soon he could finally have a best friend.

Reality doesn’t always live up to expectations and the first day he meets his new friend he comes home with tears in his eyes. His mom holds him close, her hands stroking a gentle rhythm through his hair.

“Remember how scared you felt starting a new school?” his mom asks and Blaine nods. “Well Kurt is probably just as scared right now. He might not want a friend right away but you can be there to help him out when he needs it.”

“Be patient,” Blaine whispers, words he’s heard his mom and his teachers tell him when he wants something too much or too fast.

“Yes, sweet boy,” his mom says, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “Be patient and be kind. Sometimes that’s all we can do.”

-

So he tries. He wants to be friends with Kurt more than anything in the world, more than he wants the kitten he’s been begging his mom for, more than he wants birthday presents or  _anything._ But Kurt always seems sad or angry, and sometimes he’s really mean when Blaine is just trying to help, but he remembers what his mom told him about being scared, and how Kurt hasn’t had as much time to adjust as Blaine has, so he tries to give him space, just holds his hand when Kurt doesn’t want to talk.

He works very hard at being patient and he thinks it works, because after awhile Kurt starts to relax, searches out his hand when his para is gone. He stops crying so much, stops throwing things and tentatively seeks Blaine out for activities, asks if they can eat lunch together.

“How long have you been… like this?” Kurt asks one day after they’ve exchanged pudding cups (Kurt says butterscotch is his favorite but his dad always packs him chocolate, and even though butterscotch is Blaine’s favorite too, he doesn’t mind switching).

“My whole life,” Blaine says, licking off his spoon. “I was born like this.”

“Oh,” Kurt says, contemplative. “Is it hard?”

Blaine shrugs. “Sometimes I guess. But I’m used to it.”

“I wish I could be used to it,” Kurt says, voice soft. Blaine thinks he sounds sad.

“I could help you,” Blaine suggests after a moment. Kurt is silent and for a minute Blaine’s afraid he’s going to be mad again. But then a hand is finding his, pudding cup forgotten.

“Okay.”  
  


-

The sun comes out and the weather gets warmer. Summer vacation is only a few weeks away, and Blaine starts to get nervous. He doesn’t want school to end and Kurt to go away; he never has anyone to play with in the summer and he gets bored and lonely. He tells his mom and she chuckles, obviously doesn’t understand how serious this is and Blaine tells her so.

“How about I call Mr. Hummel and ask if they want to come over for lunch this weekend?” she suggests and Blaine nods furiously before running upstairs to immediately start cleaning his room. Max follows him, curls up on his bed and Blaine takes a moment to scratch behind his ears.

“Kurt’s going to be my best friend,” he tells Max, who gives a whine in response. “You can be his friend too, I guess.”

Max seems okay with this and Blaine goes back to making sure his room is perfect.

-

“You okay, buddy?” Burt asks when Kurt clutches his hand tight enough to make his fingers ache. Kurt nods once, his eyebrows pinched in that way that Burt knows means he’s worried about something.

“You don’t have to be nervous, Blaine’s your friend, right?” They’re standing at the end of the Anderson’s driveway, already a few minutes late. Kurt had been excited all morning, talking nonstop and telling Burt all about his new friend Blaine and looking happier than Burt has seen him since  _before_ and Burt sort of wants to throw a party for this Blaine kid, if he can bring his Kurt back, even just for a little bit. And then the drive over, Kurt getting more and more quiet, vibrating with nervousness, and Burt gets it, it’s the first time Kurt’s really been anywhere that’s not school or the doctor since the accident. He just hopes more than anything that today goes okay.

“We can leave anytime you want, okay bud?” Burt tries to reassure, Kurt nodding once more before taking a small step forward.

-

Inside, Blaine’s arms immediately wrap him in a hug, the grownups making quiet introductions. Kurt smiles, lets his face tuck into Blaine’s shoulder for a moment, wonders how Blaine can make him feel so safe. And then he’s pulling away, his hand finding Kurt’s, lacing their fingers together.

“I need to show you my room,” Blaine exclaims, already pulling Kurt away from his dad and Kurt follows, barely managing to stifle a giggle. He feels light when Blaine helps him up the stairs, feels happy when Blaine shows him his collection of hot wheels and stuffed animals, feels carefree when he sits on Blaine’s bed, petting Max who he’s taken an immediate liking to.

And, as Blaine keeps up his stream of chatter, handing Kurt different toys and showing him the games his parents got for him, Kurt wonders if maybe his new life isn’t quite as bad as he thought.

-

After lunch (grilled cheese and tomato soup at Blaine’s request), Blaine takes Kurt to the park behind their house. Kurt gets permission from his dad, as long as they stay close and take Max with them. They promise and Kurt brings along some books he’s been working on, Blaine stuffing the harmonica he was showing Kurt earlier in his pocket. With one hand in Blaine’s, Max walking beside them patiently, his other hand clutching the walking stick he’s still getting used to, they make their way across the backyard, Kurt only stumbling once when his toe catches on a rock but he doesn’t let himself get upset.

“Here,” Blaine says after a moment, coming to a stop. “This is my favorite place to sit.”

“How do you know?” Kurt asks, thinking the spot doesn’t seem any different than any of the rest of the field they walked across. There’s a rustling like Blaine’s shrugging. “I just know.”

“Okay.” Kurt lets Blaine pull him down to the grass, feels the warm sun on his face, the gentle breeze in his hair. “It’s nice here.”

“I always come here in the summer,” Blaine says, pauses a moment. “You can come here whenever you want to.”

“Thank you,” Kurt says and he means it. He takes a minute to organize his books on the grass beside him so he knows where they all are, places his walking stick on the opposite side. Bethany has been complimenting him on how fast he’s been picking up braille, and he’s already gone through two exercise books, and a short book that Blaine lent him.

“Do you have a lot of books?” Kurt asks, tilting his head in the direction he knows Blaine is.

“Yeah, my mom always buys them for me,” Blaine says, excited. “You can borrow them if you want.”

“Could you help me learn?” Kurt feels shy and he doesn’t really know why.

“Sure, I’m a really good teacher,” Blaine says and Kurt can hear him laying back in the grass. “Maybe you could teach me something too?”

“I don’t know anything good,” Kurt admits, can feel Max nudging against him and he strokes his fur.

“That’s okay,” Blaine says. Max settles down beside Kurt, his tail swishing as it wags in the grass. They sit in silence for awhile, Kurt working through his braille books, the sun warming his skin, soaking into his clothes. Blaine hums a song, occasionally plays with his harmonica but he doesn’t really know anything, just blows idle notes that make Kurt laugh.

“Do you have a lot of friends?” Blaine asks when Kurt is in the middle of a story he thinks is about a carrot and his vegetable family. He pauses, closes his book, thinks.

“I used to. I haven’t talked to anyone since… um. Since the accident. I don’t know if they’re my friends anymore.” Kurt tugs the grass at his feet.

“Oh.” Blaine says, pauses. “You could ask them?”

“Yeah, maybe.” Kurt says, shrugs. “You’re my friend though.”

“I am?” The hopeful note in Blaine’s voice makes Kurt laugh.

“You’re my best friend maybe.” Kurt’s voice is soft, his fingers twirling in the grass.

“I’ve never had a best friend,” Blaine whispers and Kurt doesn’t know why but his heart starts thudding in his chest.

“I could be your best friend?” Kurt suggests, feeling nervous, chews on his bottom lip.

“Okay,” Blaine agrees and Kurt hears the grass rustling, a hand in his own. “Best friends.”

And Kurt smiles, a something that feels like happiness blooming in his chest.

“If you want, I could teach you how to whistle with grass,” Kurt, finds a long piece of grass with his fingers, holds it to his lips. “My mom taught me how.”

Kurt can feel Blaine sit up, scooting close until their shoulders bump.

“I’d like that,” Blaine says and Kurt doesn’t need his eyes to know Blaine’s smiling.  
  


-

Kurt and Blaine

    change

            the field

   does not

-

Growing up is hard. Kurt can feel himself changing, stops trusting his dad to buy his clothes and calls up Mercedes instead. They reconnect with awkward hugs and friendly giggles and Mercedes leading Kurt around the mall and telling him which clothes he should buy and which are “ugly as ass,” something that always makes Kurt laugh.

He’s with Blaine almost every day, learns how to tie his bowties, borrows books and forgets to give them back. They spend afternoons laying out in the field behind Blaine’s house, lounging in the sun while Kurt rubs sunscreen into their skin, Blaine tossing a ball for Max. Or they sprawl across Kurt’s room, blasting music and jumping on the bed until they collapse, laughing, breathless.

It’s funny the way time passes, Kurt notices. It moves slow, full of days spent listening to music on the couch with his dad, applauding Blaine at his piano recitals, savoring the warmth of a coffee cup against his fingers while listening to Mercedes’ gossip. And yet winter melts into summer, summer fades to fall, middle school turns around to high school and something changes.

His days spent with Blaine leave him with a tingling in his stomach, the way Blaine still holds Kurt’s hand so tight, the way they cuddle too close on hot afternoons. He doesn’t know what it means, the  _thump thump_ of his heart every time Blaine laughs, happy and free, at a joke. He doesn’t know, but he doesn’t want it to stop.

-

His dreams are full of barely remembered colors, swirling together like paint mixed with too much water, changing to the tune of Blaine’s voice.

-

Kurt likes Blaine’s voice. He likes the lilt it gets when Blaine asks a serious question, the way he can hear the smile pulling at Blaine’s lips when he’s excited, the way it still occasionally cracks with the remnants of puberty. Sometimes he likes to imagine what Blaine looks like based on his voice. His skin warm and smooth, his eyes probably too expressive, crinkling at the corner when he smiles. Maybe he has a dimple in his cheek, but maybe he doesn’t, maybe he just sticks out his tongue when he’s concentrating, or bites his lips. Lips that are full and pink and Kurt blushes, pushes the thoughts from his mind.

It doesn’t matter anyways, Kurt reasons, angry with himself. It’s not like he’s ever going to actually see Blaine, and he feels stupid for imaging. Foolish.

-

it

doesn’t

matter.

-

(it’s funny the things that matter, in the end)

-

The sun is warm on Kurt’s cheek, the wind only a gentle chill, the grass tickling his ankles. It’s one of those lingering days of fall, the ones that cling to the memory of summer, ignoring the inevitability of winter. His fingers trace over the familiar bumps in the book spread across his lap, only half listening as Blaine rambles about the colleges he wants to apply to when the graduate in the spring. Kurt doesn’t want to think about it. Graduation. Leaving.

He already knows he’s staying in Ohio, he can’t leave his dad, not yet, but Blaine’s been spouting off grand ideas of New York, of Chicago and Boston and maybe living with his brother in LA. All the new friends he’ll make, the new experiences he’ll have, how ready he is to be  _done_ with Ohio. It makes something tight twist in Kurt’s stomach, builds pressure behind his eyes and he tries not to listen, tries not to think about what it means.

(what it means is Blaine’s going to be  _gone_ , a voice whispers viciously in his head. he’s leaving and you’re not so you better say goodbye)

“Stop.”

The words come fast, clipped, followed by a sharp intake of breath. Blaine stops; Kurt can feel him shifting beside him, a hand touching his shoulder. Kurt shies away from it.

“Stop.”

It’s whispered this time, shaky, and Kurt squeezes his eyes shut when they begin to prickle with painful tears.

“What’s wrong?” Blaine asks, voice nothing but concern and that’s what Kurt  _hates_. Blaine doesn’t understand, he’s never anything except caring, would do anything to help Kurt and Kurt knows with a sick feeling in his stomach that’s why he needs to get out, the world deserves to know Blaine, and Blaine deserves the world.

And it’s not fair, because Kurt needs Blaine too.

“I don’t want you to leave,” Kurt whispers, embarrassed by how  _pathetic_  he sounds. There’s a beat of silence, Kurt’s fingers digging into the dirt below him.

“I can’t stay in Ohio forever,” Blaine says after a moment, and Kurt feels a traitor tear slip down his cheek. “You can’t either, Kurt. I know you want to stay for your dad, but you need to get out too.”

“You don’t know what I need,” Kurt bites, voice thick with tears, wipes an angry hand across his face.

“Don’t cry.” Blaine sounds so sad, the words so soft and helpless and something breaks inside Kurt, a dam overflowing, too many emotions kept inside for too long and Kurt lets out a sob, his shoulders shake and he doesn’t know what’s happening but he just can’t stop.

Blaine’s hand rubs a circle on his back, tentative as if he’s scared Kurt will pull away. When Kurt doesn’t he scoots closer, until he’s pressed against Kurt’s side and Kurt can’t help but lean into him, the solid, warm weight a soothing balm against the break in his emotions.

“It’s okay,” Blaine murmurs, and all Kurt sees the colors in his dreams, the reds and purples and blues that remind him so much of Blaine. He tries to focus on them but they melt away, until all that’s left is the endless dark and he doesn’t think he’s ever felt so empty.

But then Blaine’s there, always there, his arms wrapping around Kurt’s shoulders, drawing him in close, still mumbling  _it’s_ _okay_ over and overand Kurt wonders why he’s so scared to believe it.

And like that he realizes, an understanding that blooms inside him like a flower, its nectar spreading warm through his veins, pulsing in time with his heart, spreading until he feels like he’s floating. He doesn’t  _need_  Blaine. He  _wants_ Blaine, wants him in the ways he used to think only existed in fairy tales or bad movies. Wants him with the encompassing ache that so many poems have tried to capture, that artists try their hardest to put into song.

He finds himself pulling away, sitting up, only his knee still touching Blaine. The air feels thick with the questions he knows are at Blaine’s lips, but none come, just a rustling and the soft touch of Blaine’s thumb on his cheek, wiping the damp tears. Kurt reaches forward, finds Blaine’s other hand, gently wraps his fingers through Blaine’s.

“Can I kiss you?” Kurt asks, sounding as breathless as if he’d just been running, Blaine’s thumb catching the corner of his lip before pulling away.

“Yeah,” Blaine murmurs, hand resting on Kurt’s shoulder and guiding him closer. They bump noses, a nervous laugh escaping Kurt before their lips find each other, warm and salty with Kurt’s lingering tears.

It’s not perfect, but as Blaine tilts his head, presses even closer, paint swirls red and vibrant behind Kurt’s closed eyes and for the first time he understands.

There are some things more powerful than sight.


End file.
